Please Harder, Professor

Chapter 131

Adrian’s POV

My mother left with Sophie that morning for shopping, leaving me alone with Amelia for the first time since we brought her home.

I stood in the doorway watching them go—Mom linking her arm through Sophie's with easy familiarity, Bellamy trailing behind as security, all three of them laughing about something I wasn't part of.

Then the door closed and the apartment fell silent except for Amelia's soft breathing from the nursery.

I lasted approximately fifteen minutes before panic set in.

The baby was asleep, but I knew that wouldn't last. She'd wake hungry or wet or upset about something I wouldn't understand, and I'd be alone with no buffer, no one to hand her off to when my incompetence became dangerous.

Sophie made it look manageable—exhausting, yes, but possible. I had no such confidence.

I pulled out my phone and stared at the screen, scrolling through contacts I never call. Under different circumstances I'd ask Bellamy, but he was with Sophie and Mom, doing the job I should have thought to arrange for myself.

I couldn't call Sophie back—she deserved this break, this escape from the apartment and the baby and me.

My thumb hovered over Lolita's name.

This is a terrible idea. I know it's a terrible idea even as I press the call button, but desperation overrides judgment, and Lolita has experience with manipulation and control that might translate to infant management.

She answers on the second ring. "Adrian. What an unexpected pleasure."

"I need help." The admission tastes like failure. "Can you come over?"

A pause. Then: "With the baby, I presume?"

"Yes."

"I'll be there in twenty minutes."

She arrives in fifteen, carrying shopping bags that immediately set off alarm bells. Designer logos I recognize from magazine advertisements Sophie would never read.

Lolita sweeps past me into the apartment with proprietary ease, setting her purchases on the coffee table before even greeting me.

"I brought gifts for my goddaughter." She pulls items from bags with theatrical flourish. Designer baby clothes—tiny dresses and rompers with price tags I catch glimpses of before she removes them.

Numbers that exceed Sophie's entire semester tuition. A platinum rattle that catches the light, absurdly heavy and precious. An antique music box that plays something classical and probably costs more than our monthly rent.

"Lolita, these are…"

"Appropriate for a child with her lineage," she interrupts smoothly. "You're raising her in this middle-class mediocrity, but that doesn't mean she should be deprived of quality."

I don't argue. Can't waste energy on battles I won't win when I need her help with the immediate crisis of keeping my daughter alive for the next few hours.

We move to the nursery. Amelia is awake now, staring up at the mobile with unfocused attention. Lolita approaches the crib with the careful deliberation of someone examining artwork at a gallery. She looks down at Amelia with clinical detachment, head tilted as she assesses.

"Good bone structure," Lolita observes, her tone carrying the same inflection she'd use discussing a promising student. "She'll be beautiful when she develops. The eyes are particularly striking—your eyes, obviously. Strong genetic inheritance."

No warmth, no grandmotherly cooing or natural affection. Just a cold appraisal of an object's potential value.

"Babies are such potential, aren't they?" Lolita continues, reaching down to trace a finger along Amelia's cheek with calculated gentleness. "Blank slates you can write anything on, shape them properly in these early years and they become whatever you design them to be."

I stiffen visibly, her words triggering associations I'd rather not examine. The way she shaped me. The blank slate she wrote her desires and methodologies onto when I was too young to recognize the pen.

I shake off the discomfort, push away the comparison. "You came here to help with the baby, not philosophize about child development."

Lolita's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course. What do you need?"

She assists with surprising competence—shows me proper diaper-changing technique with efficient movements, prepares formula with precise measurements, and demonstrates soothing methods that actually work when Amelia fusses.

Her hands are practiced, confident, betraying experience I didn't know she possessed. But throughout, she peppers the conversation with carefully manipulative comments delivered in that casual tone that makes them sound like observations rather than attacks.

"I heard Eleanor came to town." Lolita adjusts Amelia's onesie with meticulous care. "How does it feel having your mother inserted into your domestic situation? I imagine she has... opinions about your choices."

"We're managing."

"I'm sure." A pause as she lifts Amelia, rocking with practiced rhythm. "And this bodyguard—Bellamy?— seems to be spending excessive time near Sophie lately. Quite the dedicated employee. One might almost think his duties extend beyond security."

My jaw clenches. "He's doing his job."

"Of course he is, I'm merely observing patterns."

Lolita's tone suggests she finds my defensiveness entertaining.

"You know how I enjoy watching dynamics unfold—like chess games where the players don't realize they're being maneuvered. The question is always: who's moving the pieces, and who's being moved?"

I don't respond. Won't give her the satisfaction of seeing how her words land, how they confirm suspicions I've been trying to suppress about the way Sophie looks at Bellamy, the way they move around each other with unconscious synchronization.

Time passes in uncomfortable stretches punctuated by Amelia's needs. Feed. Burp. Change. Rock. The cycle Sophie navigates with exhausted competence that I can't replicate even with Lolita's instruction.

But eventually, mercifully, Amelia falls asleep in her crib, tiny chest rising and falling with peaceful regularity.

"You should go." I check my phone. Sophie and Mom left three hours ago. Could return at any moment. "Before they get back."

Lolita raises an eyebrow. "Ashamed to have me here?"

"I just don't think introductions are necessary right now."

"You mean you don't want Eleanor to know you called me." She gathers her designer shopping bags, movements unhurried despite my obvious anxiety. "Don't want Sophie to discover you still rely on the woman who supposedly ruined your life."

I escort her to the front door without responding, one hand on her elbow to guide her exit with more urgency than courtesy.

At the threshold, Lolita turns back to me. Delivers her parting shot with the precision of a surgeon selecting exactly where to cut.

"Sophie's growing stronger, you know." Her voice is thoughtful, almost admiring. "Less dependent on you, more capable on her own. Eventually she'll realize she doesn't need you at all—just needs someone present and competent. And Bellamy is conveniently both."

She pats my cheek with false affection. "Something to consider while you're busy failing at fatherhood."

The words plant themselves like seeds in soil I've been trying not to water. I open my mouth to respond, to argue, to…

The front door swings open.

Mom and Sophie enter mid-conversation, shopping bags hanging from their arms, Sophie laughing at something Mom just said. The sound dies the moment they see us.

Mom's gaze finds Lolita standing in the foyer with me. Recognition flashes across her features—shock, then fury, then something colder and more dangerous.

Their gazes meet and lock. Time stops.

The shopping bags slip from Mom's hands, hitting the floor with dull thuds neither woman acknowledges. Sophie looks between them with growing confusion, sensing the weight of history she doesn't understand.

"Eleanor." Lolita's voice is smooth as silk, betraying nothing. "What a lovely surprise."